


Odus

by profit_of_the_prophet (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, Crime Scene, F/M, Police Officer Joan Watson, Psychic Abilities, Straight Nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/profit_of_the_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer Joan Watson becomes unwillingly involved with the somewhat infamous Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene, and Sherlock investigates a case that may change the way he sees the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SCA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious crime scene investigation ends up with more questions than answers.

"Damn," Lestrade mutters as he jabs angrily at his phone.

A look of horror comes over Donovan's face. "Oh no, you are not calling him."

"Yeah, well, we need all the help we can get."

"We can handle this," she says, gesturing at the bodies being photographed.

Lestrade ignores her and hits send on his text. His hands are twitching for a smoke and he hasn't had a proper sleep since the day before last.

 _Damn the bastard responsible_ , he thinks, popping some nicotine gum in his mouth. This was the second scene with the same M.O., and just as unexplainable as the last. There was a kid this time, for gods sake.

Looking out the window Lestrade sees Sherlock crossing the street.

"How'd you get here so fast," says Lestrade, coming out to meet him. 

"I was in the area," Sherlock replies, stopping in front of the tape.

"Yeah, sure." Waving his hand at the officer at guard he says, "Let him in."

Winking at the officer, Sherlock ducks forward and heads straight into the shabby corner store.

Lestrade sighs and follows him. Sherlock is already by the bodies and inspecting the back of the child's neck with a magnifying glass.

"Gloves, Sherlock."

Sherlock snarls and grabs a pair from the box. Having looked the woman and her son over Sherlock slips around the counter to examine the man's ears. Pulling out a cotton swab Sherlock swipes it along the cartilage. "Cause of death?"

"Sudden cardiac arrest."

"Yes, of course it is." Standing, Sherlock lets out a melodramatic sigh, looking disappointedly at the bodies. "It appears I am of no use here," he says. "See you around, then."

Lestrade's mouth drops open, before holding his arm up and stepping in front of the door. "Hold one moment, now, what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Sherlock bites, "that these murders are unfortunately similar to a case I've heard of before."

Lestrade waits a beat before asking through clenched teeth, "Would you care to share?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. "It's the Cawston Curse. Surely you've heard of it."

Lestrade only stares at him blankly.

Frowning and clicking his tongue irritably, as if Lestrade were being difficult rather than he, Sherlock goes on, "Small town in Canada had a total of thirteen deaths during August 1995. All died from sudden cardiac arrest, yet there was no trace of any substance or force which could have caused it. Their hearts simply stopped." Sherlock paces back to the bodies. "The mystery of it all was huge. The RCMP and CSIS involved themselves, even the FBI couldn't help but inquire what was happening. People started calling it a curse. Religious groups set up protests against the town and called them Satanists. They supported the killings as God's work, and as a result there were two more murders by different people over that very thing. The town Cawston became BC's least popular place to visit. But it was, of course, not a curse at all, but a person. A young girl to be exact, only fourteen."

"Hold on. Your saying a fourteen year old managed to do all that?"

Sherlock nods. "She was the only survivor present at the murder scenes when they took place. But there was no evidence to suggest she had any other role, and she herself denies knowledge of the method. It seemed as if she would be let go."

"You think she's here in London, then?"

"No. She was charged with all thirteen counts, but rather than being sent to juvenile detention or a psych ward, she was claimed by a subsection of the UN and has been in their custody ever since. That's why you haven't heard of it; they covered it up. Now if you'll excuse me."

Lestrade stares at the floor blankly, at a momentary loss for words.

"Hold on, where do you think you're going?" Lestrade calls after him.

Sherlock comes to the tape and lifts it for himself, before turning and jerking his head to the officer standing there. "Come with me, we're interrogating a witness."

"Excuse me?" she says, her eyes wide. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't be daft, this is your chance. I'm taking you because I might get into a bit of trouble if my assumptions are correct. A bit of action, hm?"

Smiling brightly, Sherlock spins on his heel and heads to the building across the street. Lestrade sees the officer jogging after him just as Sherlock begins picking the lock of the stairway entrance.

 

"What are you doing?" Joan asks, shifting her hands to her hips.

"Isn't it obvious?" says Sherlock, not looking up.

Joan tilts her chin. "Mm. No, not really."

Sherlock looks up at her with his silvery eyes and an expression that reminds Joan of a crocodile watching her from a swamp.

"You know how to use a gun."

Joan blinks, taken off guard. "Well, yes..."

The man makes a satisfied hum and reaches in his coat, pulling out a Browning L9A1 and putting it in Joan's hands before she can process it. Upon realizing the innocuous piece is in fact real and loaded, Joan hides it under her coat in a panic, glancing at the police across the street guiltily.

"Are you barking mad?" she exclaims.

The man gives a pleased smirk as the gate swings open with a creak. "Perhaps. Is there a problem?"

Joan's jaw drops. "Why yes there is, strange stranger, you've just handed me a loaded gun, I think that may be very problematic."

"I also just picked this locked."

"Oh!" she exclaims. "My goodness, how could I forget."

The man rolls his eyes, and starts walking up the stairs. "Would you rather go up unarmed?" he calls over his shoulder.

"I'd rather not go at all, thank you very much. Take this back, before I am tempted to bloody... report you! This is all very not good."

The man turns and casts her a condescending stare.

"Is that so? You're the one with an unregistered weapon under your coat covered in your fingerprints."

Joan splutters. "You gave it to me, you touched it as well!"

The man wiggles his rubbery fingers with mocking glee. "Gloves."

Joan feels her teeth begin to grind.

Rolling his eyes, the man seems to concede. "All right, I admit it's rather 'not good', as you so eloquently put it, but I am trying to catch a murderer here! So," he flails his arm in a beckoning sort of way, "come on!"

Spinning around he bounds up the rest of the stairs in three steps.

Joan looks back at the scene. If she were to go back now she might still be able to hold her job. She might forget the feeling she had that she was about to make a life-shifting choice somehow. If she threw away the gun she'd perhaps forget the electricity it sent through her fingers. Her indecision vanished when she hears a loud banging from up the stairs.

Jumping into action Joan sprints up the stairs, adrenaline pumping, until she comes to the third floor where she sees the man crouched on the floor picking at the lock on one of the doors.

He looks over, annoyed, as if she had interrupted him. "Is there something wrong?" he drawls, glancing at the gun in her hand, which she'd somehow pulled out during her sprint.

"I–I heard a bang," she stammers.

The man raises one eyebrow. "Yes. I knocked."

Joan's teeth begin grinding audibly. She shoves the gun back under her coat and walks behind the man whose face is tense with concentration.

"Who's behind that door?" she asks.

"Either a murderer or a witness. Either way, it's imperative we intercept them before they make an escape."

Joan hums and turns around, hands on her hips. She adjusts her officer's hat and turns back to the man.

"How imperative?" she asks.

"Very. Now, please, if I am to concentrate–"

With a swift, well placed kick, which barely brushes the man's elegant fingers, the door bursts forth and Joan steps inside. "That felt good," she says.

Standing, the man clears his throat and gives her a curious look before walking inside.

He flicks on the light, illuminating the regular little apartment. A single recliner faces a telly in the living room, and a kettle sings shrilly in the kitchen. Cold winter air pours in from the window, which the man walks over to, sticking his head out and looking in all directions.

Joan wanders to the bedroom and nudges the door open. This room is not as tidy as the rest. Clothes cover the floor, and dirty coffee mugs are on every available surface. Joan goes inside and pulls open the door to the bathroom, tugging on the overhead light switch to reveal a disappointingly rudimentary space.

Joan sighs, cursing herself for getting involved with this guy. Now she can't think what's worse, that she probably lost her job, or that she was chasing after a probable murderer.

"I think this place is empty," she calls. Thinking it would be best to be thorough anyways, she pulls open the shower curtain and nearly screams. An old woman lies in the tub, eyes open wide and staring at the ceiling. Joan pulls out her gun, and turns to come face to face with a walking stick. She cries out and catches herself on the side of the porcelain tub. She dodges a second blow by flinging to the side, and using the wall for leverage, leaps at his assailant, knocking them into the bedroom. But where'd her gun go? Looking back at the bathroom she sees it under the tub. Her attacker scrambles to his feet and makes a break for the window.

"Oh no you don't," she grumbles, diving over the bed and catching their legs. The assailant staggers and falls head first into the wall, slumping to the floor with a groan. Joan puts a knee on his back and bends their arms to cuff them.

"I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

"Well done," the man drawls from the doorway. "He was under the bed, you know."

Joan's hands clench, and she hoists the suspect to their feet. Pressing a button on her radio, John says, "10-12 across the street –"

The man plucks the radio from his fingers and disconnects it with a tug.

"Hey! Who the hell do you think you are?" Joan says, feeling a need to bash the man's face in.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I need to interrogate him myself, obviously."

"No, this is getting out of hand. I've entertained you long enough. We have to give this over to the police."

"That useless lot wouldn't know what to do with him," says Sherlock, waving his hand. "That's why they brought me in."

But Joan had heard enough. "Even I know the police don't consult amateurs." She regrets her word choice immediately, as Sherlock's face darkens, and his scaly crocodile face comes out once more.

"Amateur?" he scoffs before fixing his eyes on her in a way that makes it clear she has his full attention.

"You grew up in a family struggling to get by for the majority of your youth. Your family was full of alcoholics, so its no wonder you hit the bottle last night. You sure went for it, too, never did learn proper discipline, it seems. You drink to get yourself to sleep, though it never helps."

Sherlock takes a step forwards, causing Joan to take a step back.

"You live near the East End, bike to work every day, and live in a shabby apartment, even though you've had a steady job for years now. You should be able to afford somewhere better, where there's less crime and better heating. You even buy the cheapest soap to save up more money. But what for? You don't seem to have any specific lifestyle to afford, no drug habits, and despite the occasional binges, you're not a drinker. If you were saving to travel it wouldn't explain why you've adopted a puppy recently. Pets suggest long term commitment, so clearly you're not leaving the country any time soon. I assume you're giving it away, then, either charity or to support a family member. A parent? No, someone closer. A sibling, then. Have I been at all incorrect so far?"

Joan stares at him, incredulous. "But, how did you..."

"I don't  _know_ , I observe." He says it like he's said it a hundred times before.

"Thats..." Joan struggles to find the right words.

"Yes, I'm aware," he says, turning to the door so that he's facing Lestrade when he rushes in with a pair of uniforms.

"What the hell," Lestrade says at the cuffed man slouching against the door, likely concussed.

"Sir," Joan says, snapping to attention. "There's a body in the tub, sir."

"What?!" Lestrade feels the last bit of control he liked to think he had evaporate into the atmosphere. "And why didn't you call it in, officer?"

"Well," Joan glances at Sherlock. "I was subduing the assailant."

"Yet you call in a 10-12? Sherlock, explain."

Sherlock's face is stormy, and Joan can't help the wave of guilt that comes over her. "It's exactly as she says. Now, excuse me, I have much more pressing matters to attend to."

With that he swooshes past and disappears down the stairs.

"Get a team in here!" Lestrade barks. "And you," he points at Joan. "You and me are gonna have a chat."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get weird.

The snow begins to fall on London just after 3:00 AM as the first police cruiser arrives at a small unlit park. Radio static can be heard from within as Officer Joan Watson steps out from the car, torch in hand. One of the residents in the area had called 999 about some kids fighting and drinking in the park.

 _Damn teenagers,_  Joan thinks as she makes her way past a huddle of graffiti covered benches. She is careful to avoid rain puddles frozen solid in the recent weather shift while sweeping the beam of her torchlight around for late night wanderers. At the centre of the park is its only thriving piece of nature: a wide willow, it's long branches swaying in the biting wind. Joan stops to assess what lurks behind its dense cascade of branches, but she can make nothing out from where she stands. Naturally she should step inside the dome of leaves to investigate. Normally she already would have. But when Joan takes a step towards the old tree, her body temperature takes a dramatic shift and a surreal yet extremely intense sensation of cold washes over her. She feels an irrational urge to run away, which she ignores. Was she simply sensitive to the cold? Or had she come across a much more serious threat? Bringing a steady hand to her baton, but wishing she had the gun that crocodile man had given her, Joan takes another step towards the tree.

There is a loud thump behind her, and a muffled "Shit!" Joan turns to see her partner pick himself up from the ground. "All this ice will be the death of me."

"You alright, Mike?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm tough," he says, clearing his throat. He looks up at the tree warily, and Joan is wondering if he can feel the chill too when he suddenly starts towards the willow with a surprising eagerness. 

"I'll bet you they're hiding in there," he says, slipping through the branches. 

"Be careful," Joan warns, trying to convince herself her fear is irrational, but her feet refuse to take a step. 

Mike lets out a cry and Joan hears another thump. Thinking he'd slipped again she smiles, relaxing a bit, and steps through the branches to help him up. 

"Oh my Lord," Mike whispers. He's on the ground like Joan had suspected, his torch trained on the person leaning against the trunk of the tree, a teenager, his hand limp against his blood stained stomach. Scattered on the ground around him are four other teens, all looking to have fallen asleep. 

Joan checks the kids pulses while Mike calls the scene in. The teens on the ground are all dead, and though she considers it hopeless to check the bloodied kid, she does. His skin is blue and cold, but she feels a pulse, fluttering weakly. 

Tears threaten to overtake her then, but she fights them and calls back, "Mike! This kid is alive!"

"It's a Christmas miracle," he says, and picks up his radio to call for an ambulance. 

Joan busies herself by taking off her coat and covering the boy with it. "You're going to be alright," she says again and again, until the wail of sirens cuts through the cold air like a warm breeze.

 

Several hours of questioning and filing reports go by before Joan goes home, feeling weary and abused. Lestrade was not happy to see her at the scene. Ever since the incident with the woman in the tub and the crocodile man, he'd had a grudge on her. She found herself working more graveyard shifts than ever, and was loaded with grunt work. It had been two months since then, and things hadn't gotten any better. 

Lestrade had walked onto the scene looking practically gleeful to have a lead on what was feared to be a cold case, and a live possible witness, but as soon as he saw Watson his face had soured.

"Watson. What are you doing here?" he says.

Joan has to take a deep breath before turning to face Lestrade. For the last month he and some other officers had alienated her. Apparently that crocodile man from the murder scene was not a popular guy around Scotland Yard, especially in Homicide. Joan had just been transferred there, after working as a patrol for two years, and in one hour had gotten in trouble for walking away from her job, allowing a reporter to sneak past the tape and take pictures; for the gun they found under the bath; and for kicking down an apartment door. She'd been suspended for two weeks, and when she got back found that all her co-workers were convinced she was some sort of wayward soul that would drag the rest down. 

She fought the urge to say something crass and told him simply: she was on patrol, and there was a call about kids drinking in the park. He looked at her like she was the number one suspect. 

"Is that so. Keep out of our way and fill out your report." Lestrade brushed past her towards to tree without another word.

Joan stared at his tense back venomously. Luckily she had gotten over the shock of the discovery long enough ago to fill out her report. Mike had disappeared with some friends of his a while ago, sure of Joan's ability to cover for him. She climbed into the cruiser, which had idling patiently the whole time, forgotten to the storm of events happening around it. She let out a sigh, a simple exhalation of air. Whether from relief at being in something warm after standing out in the cold, or as a reception of her exhaustion, it could not be clearly said. Perhaps it was both. Yet the next sound she made, a contrasting inhalation of air, also commonly known as a gasp, escaped her chapped lips when she saw two shining eyes in her rear view mirror.

Joan spun around, her baton held threateningly at the intruder. He laughed, and she hesitated, finding the sound familiar, yet fearing who she might find the identity to be.

Basically punching the overhead lights on, she revealed none other than the crocodile man, Holmes. In the dim light provided he looked absolutely skeletal.

"What the fuck are you doing here. Preparing yourself for arrest? I must be honest, I'd have zero qualms against that."

Sherlock looks amused, but replies "Of course not," albeit with the haste of someone with many reasons to be arrested. "I am here because I need your help, Joan Watson."

Joan doesn't dwell on how he knows her name. She turns forward again and drums a beat on the steering wheel, refusing to look at the man. "I'm quite sorry to say this, sir, but I can not provide anything of the kind. I'd be happy to direct you to Lestrade, seeing as he's not too far away. I understand you two are already well acquainted."

Sherlock glances out the window toward the crime scene, a growl on his tongue as he replies, "You are the last to see the unconscious boy under that tree, and as much as I'd rather interview him, he'll likely be drugged to hell for the next few days at least. Despite the odds, I'm quite convinced you'll be able to tell me something worth hearing. Am I wrong, Officer?"

Joan is about to say,  _'Yes, you are. Now get the hell out of my car.'_ She realizes this is the only sensible thing for someone in her situation to say. She almost does, her hands itching to put the car into drive and speed towards the precinct as fast as this old car will get her there. But suddenly she remembers the feeling she experienced as she stepped towards that leering willow, the intense sensation of something terribly wrong going on being the dark swaying branches.

Without thinking, she replies, "Where to then?"

There are several moments of silence in the back seat, and she looks behind her shoulder in time to catch an intensely speculative look before he glances down at the bright phone in his lap. "Take the next right. We're going back to mine."

 


End file.
